Death Day (10 page)

    'The scratches around the cheeks and nose are identical to those on the first two victims. There's no doubt about it. Mackenzie's marks are all over the body.'

    The doctor stood beside the corpse, looking at Lambert, whose own gaze was riveted to the deep, savage gashes in the woman's neck.

    'How was it done?' he asked.

    'He strangled her with barbed wire,' said Kirby flatly.

    Lambert pushed past the doctor and pulled the sheet back over the body. 'Forget the autopsy,' he said.

    'Are you sure? I mean it's standard procedure…'

    'Fuck standard procedure,' snarled Lambert, loudly. He bowed his head and leant back against the table. When he spoke again his tone was more subdued, weary even. 'What's the motive, John?'

    'You're the policeman,' said Kirby smiling.

    Lambert grinned weakly and nodded. 'No motive. The bastard hasn't even left us a motive.' The inspector walked past Kirby. 'I'll be in the office if you want me,' he said and left.

    Kirby took off his apron and hung it up again. He looked at the corpse beneath the sheeting for a second then he crossed to his bench and began writing his own report.

    

    

    Lambert had a pad before him on the desk and, on it, he was trying to make a list, but the words wouldn't go down in coherent order. He read back what he had:

    
No motive. Injuries identical. Ray Mackenzie.

    He circled 'No motive' and got wearily to his feet. The wall clock said six-twenty A.M. Lambert yawned and rubbed his eyes. Debbie would be up by now, she'd have read his note. He wasn't sure what her reaction to it would be. Not that it really mattered.

    He thought of Mike.

    Should he visit the cemetery today? He sat down on the edge of his desk, reaching for the pad. He reread his notes. Notes. That was a laugh. What bloody notes? A page full of maybes and whys. He read it once more.

    
No motive.

    The words stuck out like compound fracture.

    But they carried with them a resonance which Lambert found all the more disturbing. If there had been no motive for the three killings, then Mackenzie could strike anywhere and at anytime. Christ alone knew who was going to be next. The wife and daughter, perhaps he could understand. Maybe Mackenzie had come home in a drunken rage and killed them both in a fit of temper. But Emma Reece…

    And the eyes. Why take the eyes? Was there some significance in that particular mutilation?

    Lambert threw the pad across the room in a fit of impotent annoyance. They had to catch Mackenzie, and fast.

    He tried to imagine what Gordon Reece must have felt like, finding his wife like that. The poor bastard was imder sedation at home. The funeral was tomorrow and he had refused to speak to any policemen until after it was over. Lambert had learned that it was to have been the Reeces' silver wedding anniversary the following day. There was nothing to celebrate now. The family were united to see Emma Reece buried, instead of to celebrate a union which had lasted twenty-five years. Lambert suddenly felt very angry. He wondered how he was going to be able to face Gordon Reece on that coming Sunday. Still, he'd learn to live with it. Everybody had to sooner or later.

    Lambert thought about Mike again. Should he visit the cemetery?

    He could fight the urge no longer. Telling Hayes where he could be reached, he hurried out of the police station and, climbing into the Capri, headed for Two Meadows.

    As he drove, he wondered how much longer it would be before the memory faded.

    He wondered, in fact, if that day would ever come.

    

    

    Debbie heard the car door slam in the driveway, followed a second later by footsteps heading for the back door. She turned expectantly towards it as Lambert entered.

    He smiled tiredly at her.

    'You look wrecked,' she said, quietly.

    'That is the understatement of the year,' he said, kissing her gently on the forehead. He walked into the sitting room and got himself a drink. 'Want one?' he called.

    She asked him for a vodka and he poured it. His own tumbler full, he drained it quickly, then poured another before returning to the kitchen where he sat at the table.

    'You got my message this morning?' he asked.

    She nodded, sipping her drink.

    Lambert exhaled deeply and took a large swallow of scotch.

    'Was it another murder?' she asked.

    'Yes. A woman in her fifties.'

    'What was her name?'

    He smiled at her, 'That's supposed to be police business.' There was a moment's silence then he said: 'Emma Reece.'

    'Oh my God,' said Debbie, putting down her drink. 'I knew her. And her husband. She was a regular at the library. When did it happen?'

    'Last night. She was out walking the dog and…' he drew an index finger across his throat in a cutting motion.

    'Was it the same one who killed the Mackenzies?' she wanted to know.

    'Yes.' He would say no more.

    'What about Mr Reece?'

    'He's sedated, apparently. The funeral's tomorrow. I've got to talk to the poor bastard on Sunday.' He finished his drink. 'You know I can understand how he feels. It's like being punched in the guts when something like that happens to someone close, like having all the wind knocked out of you.'

    'You went to the cemetery again today.' It came out more as a statement than a question.

    He nodded, prodding his food with his fork as she laid it before him. She too sat and they ate in silence. After a while, she looked across at him.

    'Want to talk about it?' she said, smiling. 'About what?'

    'Anything, I'm game.'

    They both laughed.

    'I'm sorry, love,' said Lambert, 'it's just that, well, this whole business worries me. I feel so fucking helpless. Do you know that in all the police records of this town there's never been one murder, one rape or one mugging? And now, in the space of three days, I've got three corpses on my hands.'

    'You make it sound as if it's your fault.'

    He shook his head. 'That's not what I mean. I wanted to get back to work, you know that. But not under these circumstances. Christ, three bloody murders. I didn't think things like that happened in Medworth.' He fetched them both another drink and sat down again, pushing away the remains of his meal.

    He looked up to see her eyes on him, something twinkling behind them, the beginnings of a smile on her lips.

    'What's up?' he said, also smiling.

    She shook her head. 'My old man. The copper.'

    He laughed. 'What sort of day have you had?'

    'Don't ask.'

    She got up and walked around the table. He pushed his chair back from the table and she sat on his knee. He put both arms around her waist and pulled her towards him. She kissed his forehead.

    'What do you want to do tonight?' she asked. 'We could drive into Nottingham, see a film, take in a club.'

    He shook his head.

    'I just thought it would be a break.'

    'I don't think I could concentrate on a film tonight. What's showing anyway?'

    She giggled, ' "Psycho." ' She leapt to her feet and dashed into the living room.

    'That's not funny,' he called after her and set off to catch her.

    He grabbed her arm and pulled her down onto the sofa beneath him. She was laughing her throaty laugh as he pinned her arms and glared at her.

    'That was not funny,' he repeated.

    Then suddenly, they were kissing, their mouths pressed urgently together, tongues seeking the other. He pulled away and looked down at her, her blonde hair ruffled, her cheeks flushed, her mouth parted slightly and moist with the kiss. She pulled him to her again her left hand reaching further, fumbling for the zip on his trousers. He slid his hands inside her blouse, causing one button to pop off in the process. He felt the firmness of her breasts, kneading them beneath his hands feeling the nipples grow to tiny hard peaks. She squirmed beneath him, fumbling with the button of her own jeans and easing herself out of them. But, as she rolled over to pull them free, they both overbalanced and toppled off the sofa. They lay there, entwined, laughing uncontrollably.

    'This never happens in films,' said Lambert, giggling. 'They always do it right.'

    She ran a hand through his hair and licked her lips in an exaggerated action of sexuality. She couldn't sustain the facade and broke up once more into a paroxysm of giggles.

    'What about the washing up?' said Lambert in mock seriousness.

    'Screw the washing up,' she purred, tugging at his belt.

    'There are more interesting alternatives,' he said and, once more, they joined in a bout of laughter. Laughter - something Lambert thought he had forgotten.

    

    

    At roughly the same time as Lambert and Debbie were eating their meal, Gordon Reece was pouring himself his fifth scotch of the evening. He had begun drinking at four that afternoon, large wine glasses full of the stuff, and now, two hours later, the first effects of drunkenness were beginning to descend upon him. The drink brought a kind of numbness with it. But it gave him no respite from the image of his dead wife. Her eyeless, mutilated corpse lying in that field like some discarded scarecrow.

    He filled his glass again and stumbled into the living room which was lit by the light of a table lamp. The labrador was stretched out in front of the open fire and the animal turned and licked his hand as he stroked it. Reece felt a tear well up in his eye. He tried to hold back the flood but it was impossible. He dropped to his knees, the glass falling from his grasp, the brown liquid spilling and sinking into the carpet. Sobs wracked his body and he slammed his fists repeatedly against the carpet until his arms ached.

    
God,
he thought,
please let tomorrow pass quickly.
The funeral was at ten in the morning. There wouldn't be many there: he had specifically asked that it should be a small affair. He had phoned Vera earlier in the day, told her what had happened. He'd broken down over the phone. The doctor had given him some tranquilizers and he knew that he should not be mixing drink with them, but what the hell did it matter anymore.

    He looked up at the photo on top of the TV and the tears came again. Gordon Reece sank to the ground, the dog nuzzling against him as if it too could feel his grief.

    Saturday came and went. The funeral of Emma Reece went off without incident. Father Ridley did his duty as he always did. Gordon Reece wept again, finding that anger was slowly replacing his grief. He felt as if there was a hole inside where someone had hollowed out his body. No feeling any longer, just a void. A swirling black pit of lost emotions and fading memories of things that once were but would never be again.

    It had been a beautiful day: bright sunshine, birds singing in the trees, God, that seemed to make it worse.

    The guests had gone now. The hands on the clock on the mantelpiece had crawled on to twelve fifteen a.m. and Gordon Reece lay sprawled in his chair with a glass in his hand and the television screen nothing but a haze of static particles. Its persistent hiss didn't bother him because he couldn't hear it. He just sat, staring at the blank screen and cradling the nearly empty bottle of scotch in his lap. He had taken a handful of the tranquilizers. He didn't know how many precisely, a dozen, perhaps more. Washed down with a full bottle of whisky, that should do the trick nicely, he thought and even managed a smile. It hovered on his lips for a second then faded like a forgotten dream.

    The doctor had told him not to drink with the tablets. Well, fuck the doctor, he thought. Fuck everything now. He would have cried but there was no emotion left within him, no tears left. All that remained now was that black hole inside him where his life used to be.

    His bleary eyes moved slowly from card to card, all put out on the mantelpiece.

    'With Regrets.'

    'In Deepest Sympathy.'

    He looked away and poured what was left of the scotch into his glass. He flung the bottle across the room where it struck the far wall and exploded in a shower of tiny crystals.

    In the kitchen, the dog barked once, then was silent.

    Reece watched the stain on the wall, the dark patch slowly dripping rivulets of brown liquid. He finished his drink and gripped the glass tight, staring at the photo of his wife on the TV. He clenched his teeth until his jaws ached, his hand tightening around the glass, squeezing.

    He scarcely noticed when it broke, sharp needle points of crystal slicing open his palm. The blood mingling with the whisky as it dripped onto his chest. He felt no pain, just the dull throb as his blood welled out of him. He dropped the remains of the broken tumbler and closed his eyes.

    Surely it wouldn't be long now.

    

    

    He awoke at three that morning, aware of the burning pain in his torn hand. His head felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton wool and there was a band of pain running from temple to temple which gripped tighter than an iron vice. He moaned in the depths of his stupor, the noise coming through vaguely as if from another world.

    The television was still on, its black face dotted still with the speckles of white static.

    The dog was growling.

    But there was something else. A noise louder than the others, the noise which had woken him. He listened for a moment.